


The Bare Facts

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Possessiveness, Prompt Fic, Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:48:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So here are the bare facts: they’d been sleeping together for years; it was wrong; they couldn’t help it. (Pre-series, season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bare Facts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt suggested by an anon: “Michael/Lincoln, with Lincoln acting jealous/possessive for any or no reason at all.”

So here are the bare facts: they’d been sleeping together for years; it was wrong; they couldn’t help it (they could have, they just... never mind); it wasn’t exclusive; Lincoln didn’t want it to be exclusive (except when he did, of course) and sure hoped Michael didn’t want it either (Michael, being Michael, probably did); Lincoln fucked around, though less than one would imagine; Michael slept around too, more and yet less than Lincoln would have liked.

There had been Annette in high school, Carla and two Joeys (one girl and one guy) in college, and a handful of people Michael had met mostly from work. Believe it or not, Lincoln had felt grateful for those girlfriends and occasional boyfriends. He had. Each of them represented a possibility to put a stop to an aspect of a relationship Lincoln had felt guilty about for years.

Never a real possibility, though, and never guilty enough to actually do something about it and stick with his decision. Never guilty enough, either, not to be _more_ every time competition arose: more passionate, more demanding, more giving, fucking Michael rougher or softer depending on the mood but always longer and until they both ached, more present, more turned-on, more, _more, more, more_...

“No one can compete with you,” Michael whispered once, so low, his voice so raspy from pleasure that Lincoln wasn’t sure he’d understood correctly.

Michael was spread out beneath him, open and offered, skin slick and flushed, eyes hooded and lips plump. Lincoln stopped dead in his tracks and loomed over him, buried deep in his body, before leaning down and biting his lips. A power trip surged through him as Michael moaned in earnest, the kiss-bite and the hard cock in his ass not nearly enough when he was a hair's breadth away from orgasm.

Sara, though, Sara is a different matter. Sara can compete with Lincoln. Partly because she hit something in Michael, and partly — that’s the irony — because she’s helped Michael get what he wanted for Lincoln and lost everything in the process. Yes, Sara hit something in Michael, and Lincoln can understand why because he kinda likes her. A different kind of liking his brother feels for her, but still.

It would be easier if Lincoln didn’t like her, didn’t owe her, didn’t feel grateful for oh so different reasons than he felt grateful for the girlfriends and occasional boyfriends years ago.

He rolls his hips and thrusts deeper into Michael. The two of them can hardly fit in the small bunk of their cabin aboard the cargo ship, but they manage to make it work. They’d manage to make it work anywhere, right now. Lincoln wants this more than he has in years, and Michael needs it.

Lincoln wants to fuck him through the mattress. He wants the whole damn ship to hear his moans and he wants it to show in his gait, on his face, tomorrow morning, that he’s been properly screwed and got off by someone who knows him inside and out. He wants to leave imprints of teeth on his back and round bruises on his hips, and to pump so hard and deep in him that Michael will feel him one week from now.

He rises on his forearms and looks down. Michael is pinned on his stomach beneath him, powerless and defenseless, at Lincoln’s mercy. He lays there and waits for Lincoln to take care of him, the need and tension only visible in the tightness of the muscles of his arms and the grip of his fingers around the metallic bars of the bed head. He never minds being at Lincoln’s mercy when they do that.

Instead of biting his back, Lincoln brushes a soft kiss between his shoulder blades. There’s no need for imprints of teeth or fingers bruising his skin: from hips to neck to wrists, Michael already wears Lincoln all over him in lines and swirls on blue-green ink.

“Harder,” Michael begs. “Linc...”

Lincoln shushes him, lays more heavily on him, and keeps his idle rhythm. He can see Michael’s profile on the pillow, his lips parted on a never-ending gasp, his eyes screwed shut in pained bliss. He tries to shift and arch up his lower back in a plea that is as obvious as it is wanton, and Lincoln whispers once again, “Shh,” and “Trust me,” against his ear. He gets him; he knows what Michael needs and how to give it to him.

Sara sure has never seen him like that, never done that for him, never provided this kind of comfort to him. Never mind the fact that Lincoln is comforting him about Sara of all people — that’s poetic justice, isn’t it? Anyway. Lincoln _knows_ because Michael isn’t the kind of guy who would fuck a pretty doctor up against the wall of her infirmary or would have her fast and dirty in the backseat of a car.

Michael mellows in the embrace and, with a conscious effort, goes lax. His hand unwraps from the bed, his arms and shoulders relax, his whole body stops clenching under and around Lincoln’s. Lincoln bites the nape of his neck almost animal-like and lets the biting morph into a lazy kiss, a lick, a nuzzle.

“What do you want, Mike?” Michael rolls his left shoulder with an indifference rooted in faith, a _whatever you want to do to me_ , but rubs himself against the coarse sheets of the bunk. Lincoln gently pets his arm from hand to neck. “Could use some help, couldn’t you?”

He moves on his hands and knees just enough to be able to help Michael cant his hips a bit, just enough to reach around Michael. He strokes his chest, his stomach, pointedly avoids his erection, and grazes the inside of his thigh. Michael still doesn’t push back, hardly clenches around the cock stretching his ass, barely moans. He has opened his eyes and he’s watching Lincoln over his shoulder, eyes bright with trust and lust and want, body offered and bent the way Lincoln arranged him, tattoos shifting and rippling with the smallest of Lincoln’s thrusts.

No Annette, Carla or Joey has ever seen him like that. Sure, one day, Sara will. Somewhere in a sensible corner of his mind, Lincoln hopes to Hell she will because then, it will mean Michael and he will have stopped doing _that_ — and they should have stopped doing _that_ ages ago, should have never started doing it.

But for now, for tonight, when Michael rears under him, when he lets out a gravelly shout and comes over Lincoln’s hand, when he collapses onto the thin mattress and smiles as Lincoln spills into him hot and slick, when he rolls onto his back and messily kisses Lincoln, when he looks so fucked out and appeased at last for a few hours, when he sighs and falls asleep...

Here is a bare fact: for tonight, it’s for Lincoln, and Lincoln only.

END


End file.
